


of love and blood

by camellialice



Series: hitman AU [1]
Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, boris is a hitman, somehow this is fluffier than my college au???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-29 23:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21418618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camellialice/pseuds/camellialice
Summary: A hitman has been hired to kill Theo Decker. But this hitman is very charming, and also enamored with Theo’s dog, and somehow the situation becomes even more confusing than Theo could have ever anticipated.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Series: hitman AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553299
Comments: 19
Kudos: 233





	of love and blood

A man has been following Theo for the past hour.

Theo hasn’t caught sight of his face, but he knows he’s there. About a block behind him. Theo had been on his way home when he realized and so just kept walking, didn’t stop walking, followed no particular pattern to his walking: now left, now right, now right again. He’s woven his way downtown and the man is still tailing him. There’s a sharp stab of fear in his throat, a dull ache in his lungs that’s been there for the last hour.

So he does what seems like the most reasonable course of action: he goes to Macy’s. He manages to disappear among the shoppers and racks of clothes, and when he’s certain he’s lost the man, he runs outside to Penn Station and takes a train home.

And then he gets home, and there’s a stranger in the living room.

“I fucking hate Macy’s,” the man growls.

Theo freezes.

“What do you want?” he asks very quietly, but he knows. It’s the painting. Of course it’s the painting.

“Was going to kill you,” the man says with a shrug. “Has anyone ever told you you look like Harry Potter?”

Theo doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He’s only just registered the gun in the man’s hand, and he’s forgotten how to breathe. It’s not even pointed at him, but he can’t look away from it. His vision narrows, and all he can see is gun gun gun, and he feels a little dizzy. 

The man sighs. “Okay. Business first: where is painting?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He can barely drag the words out of his mouth.

The man pouts. He honest-to-god pouts. And then his eyes widen, and he gasps, “Who is this?”

Theo turns. Popper, who apparently has no sense of self-preservation, is sitting on the carpet behind him, head tilted at an angle. Then he shifts back onto all fours and trots over to the man.

And the man who just threatened to kill Theo is squatting on the ground now, furiously rubbing behind Popper’s ears and making little cooing noises. The gun seems to have disappeared somewhere into his boot.

“What is name? Oh, here is tag — Popper? What is Popper?”

“Who are you?” Theo asks.

Without taking his focus off the dog, the man says, “Boris.”

“Is that a fake name?”

He shakes his head. “Eh, could not bother. Was spending years trying different names, I do not like them. Boris is good for me. Like Potter for you.”

“That’s not my name.” Theo doesn’t know why he said that. Don’t talk back to the man with the gun.

“I know. You are Decker. But Potter is better name, I think. It is because of the glasses,” he clarifies.

“No, I understood that,” Theo murmurs. He’s still watching this hitman pet his dog.

“So Potter,” Boris says. “Now we are friends, and you tell me where painting is, yes?”

“I don’t think we’re friends.”

“Yes, we are,” Boris insists, and stands up, dusting fur off his hands. “And this is why I do not kill you. Later maybe you can answer question. You will think on it?”

Theo says nothing. Boris steps closer. His face is long and gaunt, shadowed by a mess of curls, and his expression is grimly serious. He holds Theo’s gaze for a long time.

Then a grin cracks across his face. “Will be seeing you, Potter!”

He swishes out of the room. Popper yelps and tries to run after him.

“Popper, stay,” Theo calls, and when he hears Potter scratching at the door he follows into the next room. But Popper is gone, and so is Boris.

Theo stays up all night panicking. He’s not sure what to do in this situation. A good citizen would go to the police, probably, but a good citizen also would not be in possession of stolen valuables or be in the business of selling forgeries. He feels suddenly frustrated with his level of criminality — sure, he’s got secrets he doesn’t want the law to hear about, but he’s not enmeshed in the criminal world deeply enough to have allies in a situation like this. The only people he knows are fraud victims and unwitting accomplices. Maybe he should have given at least some thought to protecting himself before he reached where he is now. Maybe he should have given more thought to a lot of things.

He considers mounting a search for Popper, at any rate. Can you put up missing posters when you know for certain that your dog has been kidnapped? But even still, what would he put on his posters? _ Lost dog, last seen in the arms of a man who was hired to kill me because I pissed off too many powerful people, please contact Theodore Decker with information? _

It seems a waste, he finally thinks, bleary with exhaustion and anxiety as the light of dawn starts to creep into his bedroom, for such a charming grin to belong to a hitman.

It’s three in the afternoon when Popper returns.

Theo’s working in the store, and he just happens to turn around, and there’s his dog, already in the shop. He blinks, because he’s intensely sleep-deprived, but that’s definitely him, wandering under an antique dining table.

“What the fuck, Popper?” Theo asks.

Popper doesn’t answer, but Theo finds a note tied to his collar:

> _thank you for lending Popchyk! we had very nice day together___  
_he is very good dog, speaks good polish,__  
_ _you should be proud of him I think___  
\- B

He glances around the store, and then runs out to the street. There is no sign of black curls.

That night he stays up in the living room, listening vigilantly for sounds at the door. But eventually nature calls, and when he gets out of the bathroom, he sees Boris in his kitchen waving a bottle of vodka.

“Potter! Drink with me!”

“I’m not drinking a fucking thing you give me,” Theo spits out. “It’s poisoned.”

Boris rolls his eyes. “So paranoid! Fine. You provide drink. You have vodka?”

Theo hesitates for a long time, but doesn’t see a lot of other options. “I have whiskey.”

“Good enough,” Boris allows, and sits down at the table. “You pour us some?”

Theo does, very slowly. Popper has materialized at the sound of Boris’ voice and is snuffling around the kitchen. Theo sets a glass in front of Boris.

“You too,” Boris insists, and he complies.

They hold eye contact and drink at the same time.

“What did you do to Popper?” Theo asks.

“Nothing!” Boris says, and looks offended at the suggestion. “We went to sleep, he cuddled on me, we went to park. A nice day.”

“Who sent you to kill me?”

“Lucius Reeve.” Theo hadn’t actually expected an answer, and doesn’t mask his face quickly enough. Boris notices his raised eyebrows. “What, you thought I would hide this? Why bother? Was obvious. Who else would kill you?”

“I’ve pissed off a few people.”

“No,” Boris corrects, “you’ve _ scammed _ a few people. All idiots, no trouble. Except for with Reeve I think you are in over your head, and now I am here.”

“Are you going to kill me tonight?” Theo asks. He feels he has a right to know.

“Pfft! No.”

“When will you kill me?”

Boris shrugs. “For being honest, I do not want to kill you. I like you. On outside, you look innocent, like child — this is why I call you Potter! Adorable. You wear ugly suits. You sell furniture and have puppy dog. Very cute, very boring. But on inside! You are asshole.”

Theo, against all his wiser instincts, opens his mouth to object. Boris laughs at him.

“In good way! You are _ interesting_. And smart! You run good scam.” He leans in. “You wear this polite skin but underneath you are devil. This is why I like you.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?” Theo asks.

Boris laughs again and downs his drink.

“You’re an asshole too,” Theo ventures to say, and is relieved to see Boris grin in response.

Boris stands, scoops up Popper, and kisses the top of his head. “Goodnight, Popchyk,” he croons softly. Then he places Popper in Theo’s lap and picks up his bottle of vodka. 

He pauses on his way out of the kitchen and looks straight at Theo. “Reeve wants this painting of yours,” Boris says sharply. And then, a little softer, “I do not think you should give it him.”

Then Boris leaves.

Boris comes back the next night. And the next, and the next.

At least once a week, on average, he remembers to ask about the painting. Theo always denies knowledge of it, and Boris shrugs off his denial easily. But all the same he keeps coming every night, sometimes to drink, sometimes to visit Popper, sometimes to play cards, sometimes just to chat.

“Isn’t this a waste of your time?” Theo asks eventually.

“Eh,” Boris shrugs. “Is fun. My life is boring.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Boris cocks an eyebrow. “Well. Is not as interesting as you.”

“So sweet,” Theo says. “Am I your favorite hit job?”

“You are for certain chattiest job. Shut up. Can’t hear movie over yammering.”

After about two months of this, Boris arrives with news.

“Reeve is getting mad with me,” he explains. “He says too long with no results. I tell him I am closing in, that you are slippery man. I don’t know if he buys this.”

“Please don’t call me slippery,” Theo says with disgust.

“Potter. Am being serious.” He looks around. “Where is Popchyk? He should be here for conversation.”

Boris whistles and settles into an armchair. Popchyk bounds in and onto his lap.

“So what?” Theo asks. “You’re actually going to kill me now?”

Boris rolls his eyes. “Really? After everything you ask this of me? Why have you no trust?”

“You’re a hitman,” Theo points out. Boris looks offended.

“Listen,” he says seriously. “If Reeve thinks I cannot do job, he will hire other man. Other man might not find you charming like I do. This would be problem for us.”

“So if you don’t kill me, he will.”

“For hundredth time, I will _ not _ kill you! All of a sudden you are so scared of me again.”

“I’m scared that someone wants me dead!”

“Okay, this is fair point. He does want this.”

“So what the fuck am I supposed to do?” Theo asks, sinking into the chair opposite Boris.

“We have options,” Boris says confidently. He doesn’t seem scared at all. Theo can’t decide if that’s a good or bad thing. “_Jeden_: we kill Reeve.”

“Absolutely not.”

Boris shrugs. “Was thinking you would say this. Worth shot, anyway. Option _ dwa_: we give him painting. This is what he most wants.”

“There’s no painting.”

“Yes, yes, I know, no painting. But if you did have painting, maybe consider giving it up?”

Theo takes off his glasses and rubs his hands over his face. He can’t do that. He knows it sounds easy, but he just can’t fucking do that. He can’t give up the most important thing in his life.

“Option _ trzy_: we fake your death?”

Theo stares at Boris.

“Is not best option, I admit this. But if —”

“No,” Theo says, “these are all terrible. We’re starting over. How much time do we have?”

Boris frowns. “A week, maybe. Then he will know for certain I have no plan to kill you. He suspects, I think, but I try to buy time.”

“A week is really fucking soon,” Theo says, “if that’s when I’m going to _ die_.”

“You will not die.” Boris gets up suddenly, displacing Popchyk, and kneels in front of Theo, squeezing his hand. “I promise this. You will not die.”

“Weird promise to get from your hitman,” Theo mumbles.

Boris smiles. “Weird promise to give to target! But you are special case.”

“One day you’re going to stab me in the back,” Theo says, “and I’ll probably deserve it.”

Boris brings Theo’s hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Never would I do this. But still,” he adds with a cheeky grin, “probably is best anyway to keep on your toes.”

They each have a beer and play a round of cards, as if it’s a normal night, as if the specter of Theo’s death isn’t looming over them. When Boris leaves, he hesitates at the door for a second and looks back at Theo as if about to say something. And Theo’s whole self is strung tight, waiting to hear whatever it is he might say, not even sure what he’s hoping for or expecting. But all Boris says is, “Tell Popchyk from me _ słodkich snów_.”

“I will not,” Theo assures him, “because I cannot pronounce that.”

Boris smiles, a small smile. “Then give him kiss instead.”

Theo lies awake on his bed for hours. He hasn’t even bothered to get under the covers. He’s managed to slip off his suit jacket and tie and unbutton the top of his shirt, but that’s as far as he got before his brain took over and demanded his full attention. He thinks about Boris, about Boris’ promise, about Boris’ job, about the past two months of seeing Boris _ every day _ without fail. He thinks about Boris kneeling in front of him. He thinks about Boris’ lips on his skin.

He thinks about how his entire life is in Boris’ hands. This has been true for a while now, but he had been able to forget it, to suppress it, to think of Boris as a drinking buddy more than a threat to his life. That threat hadn’t felt real in a long time. But tonight it’s come crashing back, and while Theo knows that his first concern should be his own safety, he can’t stop thinking about how it has also fractured his faith in what feels like the most honest friendship of his life.

He wonders if he is genuinely, truthfully, afraid of Boris. He knows that he should be.

He thinks he might actually be more afraid of why Boris _ doesn’t _ scare him.

And then he hears the shot.

Maybe it’s dumb to run towards the gunfire. But it doesn’t occur to him to do anything else. Terror wells up inside of him and his first thought is, _ Where’s Popper? _

Popper is not in the living room. But two men are, and they’re struggling with each other in front of the open window, and one of them has dark curly hair.

Boris’ name flies out from Theo’s lips before he has time to think. Both men turn their heads.

“Potter, you fucking —”

Boris receives an uppercut to his nose and stumbles backwards into Theo. There’s blood gushing from his face. Theo feels like they should get away, get out of here, but he knows he won’t be able to carry Boris far enough and he doesn’t think Boris would run of his own accord. In his arms Boris is biting his lip and grimacing. Theo lowers him to the floor and crouches beside him, trying to jumpstart his brain into action, a plan, anything.

The man—the other hitman—raises a gun. It’s pointed at Boris.

“The painting,” he says calmly. “Where is it?”

Theo swallows. “Behind the bookshelf,” he forces himself to say, squeezing Boris’ thigh. “Taped to the wall.”

“Theo,” Boris is whispering urgently. “No, _ nie_, don’t —”

The man slowly backs against the wall, in the space between the window and the shelf, without losing his aim on Boris. Theo lets his fingers travel down Boris’ leg.

“This bookshelf?” the man asks. Theo reaches Boris’ boot.

“Yes,” he says, and shoots him.

He’s never shot a gun before. It’s so loud and so close to his face. His ears ring and his eyes squeeze shut involuntarily. When he opens them the man is gone, and there’s a trail of blood out his window.

“Fuck,” Theo gasps. “I shot him. Holy fuck. I killed somebody.” He’s hyperventilating. There’s blood on his hands. He should go to the window and see where the body fell. He can’t get off the floor.

“You idiot.” Boris’ voice cuts through the static in his brain. “You hit shoulder. Is fine. Would be easier if you killed, but you have shitty aim.”

He feels hands in his. Boris is taking the gun away from him, and Theo lets him have it. He forces himself to breathe in, out. Boris is shaking his shoulder.

“You are okay, Potter? Yes? Tell me if you are okay.”

Then he remembers the blood.

“Boris,” he breathes, and then louder, “Boris!”

He turns and looks up. The blood’s not flowing as strongly as it was before, but Boris’ face looks pretty fucked up.

“You’re hurt,” Theo says. It feels like a stupid observation, but he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Is fine,” Boris reassures him. “Face always bleeds most. Nose is bitch like this.”

“You came back? How did you know?”

“I did not leave. You think I would let you sleep alone with everything happening?”

“You said we’d have a week,” Theo accuses.

“I said maybe a week! But was mostly not wanting to scare you.”

“You fucking terrify me,” Theo says, and Boris laughs, sputtering blood. He runs a hand across his face to smear off some of it.

“Could I have towel? And vodka? Then we clean up mess.”

“Yeah. Yes. Okay. Let’s go to the kitchen,” Theo says, and stands. Boris also stands, shakily. When they get to the kitchen he collapses into a chair.

Theo goes to the sink and tries to rinse the blood off his hands, and most of it comes off easily. He grabs a dishtowel, runs it under the water, and then sits in front of Boris.

“Keep your mouth shut,” he commands, and scrubs at his face. Boris winces and kicks him when he pushes too hard against his nose.

“Imph finph,” Boris tries to say, muffled by the towel. He wrestles his mouth free. “Potter! Is good enough. Where is vodka?”

Theo glares at Boris. Then he puts the towel down and presses a firm kiss to his lips.

Boris flinches and yelps.

“Fuck,” Theo says. “Fuck. Sorry. I — fuck.”

“No, Potter,” Boris interrupts. His voice sounds a little strained. “Kiss is good. But be gentle with nose, please.”

He tilts his head up a little, in expectation, and hesitantly Theo moves in again. He angles his face to try to avoid Boris’ nose entirely and kisses him as gently as he possibly can.

It tastes like blood, to be honest. But Boris is kissing him back with cautious enthusiasm, and one of his hands comes up to rest in Theo’s hair. And Theo just feels a rush of gratitude, that he is alive, that Boris is alive, that Boris is kissing him, that they are both here and also kissing, and safe, and kissing. He moves his right hand away from Boris’ face and down his arm, and then his hand is wet.

He pulls back immediately. “What the fuck, Boris?”

Boris looks confused. “You kissed me. You started this, yes?”

“He _ shot _ you?! When the fuck were you going to tell me?”

“Is fine,” Boris argues. “Was not wanting to worry you!”

“It’s not fucking fine, you were shot! We need to, I don’t know, get you to a hospital or something —”

“No!” Boris says forcefully. “No hospitals.”

“Boris, you —”

“Potter! Trust me. No hospital. We see my people.”

“Who the fuck are your people?”

Boris grabs the back of Theo’s head and pulls him close, presses their foreheads together. “Potter,” he says quietly. “Do you trust me?”

_ No_, Theo wants to say, _ not when you lie to me, not when you steal my dog, not when you’re a hitman hired to kill me, not when you get fucking shot in my living room and are happy to bleed out in my kitchen and never fucking tell me — _

“Yes,” he says instead.

Boris smiles. “Go get Popchyk,” he says. “And get a bag, and things you need. We should leave here. Get your painting also.”

“The painting isn’t here.”

“Whatever. Go pack. Not too much! Meanwhile I drink vodka for pain.”

So Theo finds an old backpack in his closet and starts shoving essentials into it, clothes and toiletries and supplies for Popper. He also picks out his most precious valuables, though it feels like not nearly enough. He doesn’t know how long they’re leaving for, and his heart aches at the thought of never coming back. He has _ so many _ nice things that he might just never see again.

He comes back to find Popper curled up under Boris’ chair and Boris slamming down a shot glass.

“You are packed?” he asks. “Good. We go now.”

He leads Theo out of the apartment and down a twisty route. Theo wonders if this is how Boris has come and gone for all of his visits. They go to a neighborhood Theo’s never been to before and knock at the back door of a bar, where a woman greets them and converses rapidly with Boris in Polish before taking them upstairs.

She points at a stiff wooden chair. “You sit here,” she says to Theo. Boris nods his head in confirmation.

So Theo sits and holds Popper on his lap while she takes Boris to the next room. He lets his head fall back against the wall and closes his eyes and tries to remember what he felt like two hours ago. Also a mess, but a different kind. Everything he was confused about then seems clear now, and now he gets to be scared for new reasons. This is the consequence of that clarity: he’s realized how much he doesn’t want to lose Boris just in time to face that prospect head-on.

After some period of time the woman comes back and thrusts an armful of clothes at Theo. “Wear this now,” she says.

“This is my favorite suit,” Theo protests weakly.

She makes a _ tsk_ing noise. “Is covered in blood.”

Theo accepts the bundle of new clothes. “Is Boris —”

“Will be okay. Bit of a baby, but okay.” She leaves again.

Theo gets dressed and lifts Popper into his arms again. He feels safest with his arms around him, being able to hold onto him. Popper puts his nose in Theo’s ear.

Then Boris emerges, also wearing new clothes, with a backpack of his own slung over his good shoulder. He grins when he sees Theo.

“See? All better, ship shape. Ah, we look like new men!”

“You’re an asshole,” Theo says. It’s all he can bring himself to say.

But Boris understands, and his grin melts into something soft and warm. He steps in, close to Theo, and gently strokes Popper’s head.

“_Cześć_, my friend Popchyk,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to his fur. Then he looks up at Theo.

“Don’t kiss me after you’ve kissed the dog,” Theo warns.

Boris laughs. “Potter. Will you go with me?”

“Where?” Theo starts to ask, but then he thinks more honestly about his answer, and says, “Yes.”

Boris’ eyes light up. “We go tonight,” he says, and there’s a music of excitement in his voice that almost enchants Theo into forgetting their circumstances entirely. “Amsterdam first, I think, for to visit some contacts. But then you pick next city — anywhere in all the world you want most to see.”

“Okay,” Theo says. “But one more stop, first.”

Boris goes along without question, and Theo takes him to the storage locker. He tears open the wrapped package and holds it up for Boris to see.

“This is the painting,” Theo explains. “_The Goldfinch_.”

Boris looks at it for a long time, and then at Theo. “He will know,” he says. “Reeve will know that you have been to here and he will find it. And how will we take this out of country? Not on plane! I have one friend I could ask, but he is bit of a snake —”

“We’re not taking it,” Theo says, as much as it pains him. “I’m leaving it here. Reeve can take it if he wants it. Maybe he’ll leave us alone.”

“You are sure?” Boris asks. It’s a big fucking question. Theo can feel every point at which his hands are touching it, and there on the pads of his fingers he feels decades of devotion and love and guilt and secrecy, all shared between the two of them, this painting and him. And he remembers all the years when this painting was the only thing that meant fucking anything to him at all. And he can’t possibly begin to understand or explain what has changed.

So he turns to Boris. “Why did you stay tonight?”

Boris squints, like it might be a trick question. "Because of bad men trying to kill you?"

“Yes, but why didn't you let them?” Theo asks. "Why didn't you kill me when you had chance after chance?"

Boris tilts his head. “Why now are you asking this?”

“I need to know for sure,” Theo says, “before I just give up everything. If we're leaving together, I want to be on the same page.”

Boris huffs. “You know my page. Am I not clear? Did not I kiss you?”

“To be fair,” Theo points out, “I kissed you.”

“I kissed you back!”

“But do you love me?”

Boris gapes at him. “Do I love you? Just tonight I got shot for you! Ridiculous question, yes, I love you!”

“Okay, then,” Theo says, flushed. “Well, I love you too.”

“Good,” Boris retorts, then lets his gaze slip down Theo’s face. “Can I now kiss you? I promise no dog breath.” He makes a show of wiping his mouth with the hand that isn’t holding Popper.

Theo wraps the painting back up and leans it against the wall. He lets his fingers linger on the edge of the package for a second, and then forces himself to tear away. It’s easier when he has Boris to turn back to.

So he crosses over to him, and (gently!) cups his face, and gives him a tender kiss. He can feel Boris’ smile against his lips. Between their chests Popper whines, and laughter bubbles up in both of them and bursts the kiss.

“Come with me now,” Boris whispers.

“To Amsterdam?”

“To Amsterdam.”

Theo kisses him one more time, and the three of them run away together.

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on something else but then this popped into my head and wouldn't go away!!


End file.
